


Old Sick Boys

by leporicide



Series: Fighting Boys [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Drunk Hookups, Explicit Sexual Content, Growing Pains, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Miscommunication, Misplaced Aggression, Underdog Trope, Underground Fighter!Hunk, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-08-13 06:27:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7966024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leporicide/pseuds/leporicide
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hunk has a violence in him that comes out in the ring. He's barely contained, body vibrating with unused energy. There's nothing more amazing than winning, than fractured jaws and broken noses, split lips and bruised eyes.</p><p>That is, until Lance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue - goosebumps

**Author's Note:**

> It's hance week! I want to participate but I do terrible with prompts so instead, I'm writing this underground Hance AU in the span of 1 week, 1 chapter a day, meaning this story will be 7 chapters long! After that, I'll return to my other fics that desperately need my attention. I just wanted to write a fic where it's Hunk who needs the healing and Lance is the one to help him.
> 
> This chapter is a prologue, setting a mood before the real stuff begins. The rating will reach E sooner rather than later. 
> 
> WARNINGS:  
> Graphic Violence, Sexual Content (Angry), Language, and lots of Drama. Unbeta'd because I am powering through this.

The past holds an irreversible truth and despite the old soil and mangled weeds that grow over time, it will always remain a dead proof to the value of existence. The past cannot be changed and the future will bend to the reminder of it, cradling it in every decision pushed forward. You don’t choose who you are, your mistakes do. Hunk is intimately aware of this truth, which is why he barely holds the savage grin that cracks at his lips when his fist connects with his opponent’s jaw with a satisfying  _ crunch _ . 

Hunk knows that the moment of impact, his knuckles split open, raw and exposed as it slathered blood on the falling body. The stinging doesn’t even reach his spinal cord, the adrenaline of having won overcoming every painful sensation his body screams at him. He’s feeling  _ goosebumps _ and sparkling. The referee wastes no time, crawling onto the matted platform, sliding on his knees to the slumped man. He counts down from three.

When he hits one, the body unmoving except for the slow steady shifts in his chest to remind Hunk he didn’t kill the guy, the referee slams his open palm to the ground, the sound shattering the former silence of the room. The crowd fucking loses it. There’s screaming and shouts, money exchanging hands and a few slurs thrown his way but Hunk is untouchable. The judge rushes up to him to raise his hand high in the air, fist caked in blood. “We have a winner!”

Hunk feels tingling in his fingertips, from excitement or nerve damage, he couldn’t say. The delicate gravestones of his spine form a straight line as he stands tall to scream at the top of his lungs. He screams all the way to the bar, screams when Shiro offers him a ride home. When he gets passed the door to his bedroom, his voice is hoarse and broken but that doesn’t matter.

Hunk lays in his bed that night, nursing his wounds and the bubbling pleasure he feels over the ache in his joints, intimately aware that this is a truth as well. A truth not spoken in words, but broken bones and caved in noses. He sleeps having to snore because his split lip hurts the most when he closes his mouth.

***

Waking up is an entirely different story, with a whole new set of emotional bearings. Hunk can barely open his eyes, his left one having swelled shut over the course of the night. His lips stick when he takes in a breath, the cool air irritating the broken skin. God, he feels sick, knows that there are bruises that line his abdomen in multicolor shading, akin to melted plastic. It only takes a small ring from his phone to finally motivate him to push up against his bed and stand on shaky feet.

He reaches his cellphone slowly, with careful steps like he’s learning how to walk. “Hello?” 

“You sound like shit,” rings Pidge’s voice, stoic through the static of the phone. Hunk stares at the screen, Pidge’s face blinking aggressively at him.

“Um,” he squints his functioning eye. “Good morning to you too?”

Pidge doesn’t respond right away and Hunk figures that’s cue for him to wash up. He keeps the phone on speaker, shuffling to the bathroom to relieve himself. The moment he reaches up to pull his sweatpants down he’s faced with the reality that his right hand is  _ fucked _ , cut deep around the knuckles with old crust still lingering from last night.

“I’ll be around in thirty minutes,” Pidge calls from his phone. Hunk nods, mostly for himself and doesn’t bother to respond before stepping into the shower. He hisses when the water, cold and light thanks to the water pressure, seeps into his wounds. He can already feel the swelling around his eye calming down when he faces the spray.

By the time he’s dressed, grabbed something to eat and wrapped his fist in gauze, Pidge is honking in the front. The Jeep looks huge in comparison to the small body of his friend, dwarfing the angry shouts.  He quickly flings his bag in the open back before rolling smoothly into the passenger seat. Pidge takes an awkward amount of time to start moving the car and by the time Hink realizes that she’s staring at him, he feels flustered.

“What the fuck happened to your face?” She yells, starting the car with the force of someone with an older brother to fend off.

Hunk laughs. He didn’t think the bruising was that bad, rather it made him look kind of cool. “You don’t like them?” Pidge’s round frames almost slip off her face as she makes a sharp turn, shoving Hunk against the door, grazing against his right hand and causing him to narrow his eyes. “That was on purpose!”

“Please,” Pidge all but growls. “Please tell me those were not intentional.” 

“No, no.”

“You look like you got run over by a truck, which proceeded to back up and run you over again.”

Hunk is suddenly acutely aware of the scar on his lip, tonguing it. Pidge watches him closely from the corner of her eyes, her gaze hot and angry but she keeps her mouth mostly shut for the rest of the ride. Hunk is thankful for it.

They pull up into the student parking of their university after Pidge nearly hops out of the Jeep to fight someone physically over a spot. The wise man backed off. “You’re hypocrite.”

“I knew he’d back off,” she mutters, still not really speaking to him. “How late will you be?”

“My last class is at three.”

She sighs and Hunk knows that despite his shortcomings, his childish nature and incomprehensible hobbies, Pidge will always go the extra mile. “I’ll wait in the library after class.”

“You just want to hunt their archive of vintage porn.”

That gets him a long awaited smile curling at the ends of her lips. She forgives him, he sees it in the reflection of her eyes, larger thanks to the glasses hanging low on her face. “You know I’m into the old shit.”

He laughs, hoisting his backpack from the back before making his way to the Johnson Science Building. “Yeah, yeah,” he calls behind him, giving her a short wave of thanks. “I’ll make us something fancy tonight.” 

He can faintly hear Pidge cheering in the distance.

The walk to the science building is Hunk’s favorite part. He’s already late so there’s no need to rush to his physics class. His feet move slowly but there’s a purpose to each step that steadies him, grounds him to the moment and just for a split second, he thinks he’s moving forward. Until his knuckles ache and his lips sting.

When he finally crawls up the flight of stairs to his class, the professor is missing. It’s only been a week since the start of classes but Hunk panics that maybe an exam is today, that he had somehow mislabeled his schedule and undoubtedly fucked himself. He shoves the door with his shoulders in a panic. The shatter from the room doesn’t die but he does receive a few looks from students, eyeing him wearily before continuing their conversation. The professor just wasn’t in yet, he realizes with relief streaking across his face.

His seat in the back is taken now, the class if packed with freshman in this intro class and now Hunk feels awkward, standing at the front his healthy hand wrapped around his bag strap. He feels like he’s back in highschool as he hunts for a seat, back to being scared of who he was and hesitant to meet new people. He’s better now, he likes to think. He’s grown into something less molded by eyes on him, rather a hardened shell that set the balance of his place in the universe is.

Hunk is a man who has defined himself and knows what he wants.

And what he desperately wants right now is find a seat that isn’t smackdab in the front row. He finally catches an empty chair a couple of levels away and makes the trek to the spot. When he finally sits down and situates himself with his notebook a hand is sticking into his peripheral vision, jarring his mechanical state. The hand, more like long brown fingers, are attached to an arm leading to his current neighbor. 

“Hey,” the classmate says, a large smile looping on his face and  _ fuck _ it’s infectious. Hunk is smiling back, regret immediately flooding his mind when his lip splits open for the second time today, blood free falling on his notebook. The stranger looks shocked, a paleness washing over him as he drops his hand. Hunk thinks maybe he might not be as confident as he thought because he starts to feel something akin to fear.

“Well,” the stranger says, turning to his pack and pulling out a small plastic bag of tissues, gingerly handing Hunk one with a sheepish smile. The expression is if anything, handsome and Hunk’s stomach is doing somersaults as he accepts it. “That’s some smile you got there.”

“That’s what got you, huh?” Hunk jokes, pushing the tissue against his lip and letting it soak up the seeping red. The stranger’s hands were cold. 

“Yeah, that. And the shiner.” Hunk had forgotten about that, the bruising having surely gone down, leaving the ugly violet color drowning his eye. The stranger looks at him and there’s a fondness in there that Hunk is drawn to. “It’s quite charming, big guy.”

Hunk wipes the final spots of blood on his lip before crumpling up the tissue. “What can I say? I aim to charm.” He pauses for a moment, watching how the man rests his chin in the palm of his hand, taking up the desk space between them. “Is it working?”

That gets him a melodic laugh, knocking him breathless. “I’m Lance.”

“Hunk,” he mumbles shyly, and yeah he’s not as confident as he originally thought but in his defense, Lance was  _ beautiful _ , from the way his shoulders shake when he laughed to the loose way he holds his smiles, like they cost nothing but mean  _ everything _ . Hunk feels the familiar tingling of goosebumps.

The professor chooses that moment to run in, tie hanging messily around his neck as papers scatter in his wake. Lance immediately snaps his attention to the front, subtly handing Hunk the rest of the tissue bag. Hunk looks at it in confusion until his tongue touches his lip. He had smiled large enough to aggravate the cut again, the wound openly weeping. 

He can’t find it in himself to pay attention, with the burn of his hand becoming a steady unreachable itch.

He gets Lance’s phone number surprisingly easily before the end of class, with the promise to study together for the first physics quiz in a week. Hunk doesn’t have many contacts on his phone, a couple from high school, Pidge and his mother, a few dozen from the boxing ring. Putting in Lance’s contact information seems like a new experience, one of those moments his mother used to make him write in a journal. Naturally, he tells Pidge about it.

“You mean Lance  _ Lance _ . As in Lance McClain?” Hunk shrugs his shoulders as they walk towards her car. “Um, kinda tall. Cuban? Can’t shut up?”

Hunk didn’t know he was Cuban, but he quickly stores the mental fact. “He didn’t really talk much in class.”

“Probably because he has hots for the professor or something?”

Hunk turns his gaze to Pidge as she jumps into the driver seat, using her whole body to close the door behind her. Hunk follows accordingly. 

“Is he..?”

Pidge looks thoughtful before shaking her head, starting the car. “No idea. But I have my introduction to politics class with him.”

“And?”

“And he’s a pain in my ass.” 

Hunk chuckles, leaning back in his seat. “So you have group work?”

“Of fucking course. In a politics class of all things.”

“Hmm,” hums Hunk as he stares out the window. 

“So, what are you cooking?”

Hunk shoots her a small smile, this time more mindful of his face. “I’m thinking Cuban.”

“ _ Hunk _ .”


	2. I - outside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Good news now?” Shiro asks, looking at Hunk with something gentle in his eyes. He’s too good for him.  
> “Hit me.”  
> “You got a fight with him at the end of the month.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa, guess who's already late. By a day. (Me). I've been dealing with work and classes and the night shift is murder. Here's more hance for hancesome week and honestly, what's cooler than Hunk fighting.
> 
> Nothing, absolutely nothing.

_ 2 months later _

Hunk flinches at the sound of Lance’s head colliding with his desk beside him. It reverberates across the quiet library, echoing down the aisles of books and empty chairs. There’s a tiny groan that follows the action, more sorrowful than in pain. Hunk tries to comfort the man, reaches a bruised hand delicately to touch the exposed skin of the lower neck, right before the collar.

Lance hums appreciatively but otherwise doesn’t stir from his face down position, nose probably being squished by the wood. Hunk silently watches his breathing, even which means he hasn’t been crying. Whatever the matter was, it wasn’t severe.

“You okay?” He asks, because he’s such a good guy. Lance finally turns his head, letting his cheek fight gravity against the table instead. He looks cute, and Hunk nearly scolds himself at the thought, skin smudged against desk. “Wanna talk about it?”

Lance looks up at him, blue eyes narrowed slightly from lack of sleep. Hunk’s noticed he’s been pulling more shifts at work, late night and overtime. They’re only known each other for a couple of months but lately, reading each other comes so naturally between them. It’s reached the point of late night sleepovers and shared movie marathons that Lance no longer needs to speak, just look at Hunk and it’s there. Tangible like any dialogue, heavy in their arms. Hunk thinks he might be in love, but maybe he’s just horny.

“Nyma, she just wants to  _ date  _ me, Hunk.” Lance’s voice sounds high and whiny, shrill against the silent study hall. It’s charming, it really is, how quickly the man will revert to childish tactics to gain Hunk’s sympathy. It usually works.

“Isn’t that what you wanted when you asked her to the party?”

“No,” Lance denies, abruptly sitting upright to look at him, eyes expressing exaggerated betrayal before softening at Hunk’s raised eyebrow. “I mean, yes-- _ okay- _ I did want to sleep with her,  _ at first _ .” He makes a show, puffing out his lips in a pout. Hunk wants to bite it. Instead, he lets his hand remain settled at the warm skin on the base of Lance’s neck. 

“And?” Hunk asks.

“And, I sorta, kinda,” Lance looks around. “You know.”

Hunk sighs, his hand dropping from the spot, much to Lance’s chagrin from the growing pout. “You do this every time, dude.”

“I know, I know,” Lance slinks away, looking shamed which does something to Hunk in his gut, reminds him of lowlights and constant cheers. “I'll talk to her.”

Hunk figures he hates it. 

***

Hunk gets intimate with the floor more than he'd like to admit. When he’s skull cracks against the mat, looking up at Shiro, barely breaking a sweat, Hunk decides that maybe the ground and him need a break.

“You’re too slow,” Shiro scolds, crouching down to extend his hand. Hunk takes it, against his internal distress. “You allow yourself too many hits to get through. Just because you’ve got good endurance doesn’t mean you should allow your opponent to beat you down until you find an opening.”

Hunk grunts, getting pulled up in standing position and breathing out deep. Shiro was going easy on him, the only two in his small gym. It’s Sunday, closed to the general public to allow Hunk to train, a routine he’s had since he was in high school. 

“I know, I know,” he sighs, looking at his wrapped hands, the white stark against his skin. He feels hot and out of place. “I just get tunnel vision.”

Shiro frowns, moving across the small ring to reach a couple of bottles of water on a waiting chair. He throws one to Hunk lazily, allowing him to catch it in his right hand. “Well, don’t.”

“Easier said than done,” he mutters back childishly, but he knows he’s in the wrong. His cheeks flush but he focuses on drinking the water quickly to avoid awkward conversation. Shiro is kind enough to let him finish. 

“Alright,” he says when Hunk chugs the bottle at the waist bin, earning a low whistle from Shiro as it sinks in smoothly. “Let’s go again.”

This time, when Hunk hits the floor it’s only to dodge Shiro attempting to place him in a lock, arms stretched wide in quick fashion. The world moves slow when he’s in the heat of a fight, spots the way Shiro’s muscles flex for certain movements, the rapid flitter of eyes in a direction, all tell signs that allow him to effectively react.

Shiro’s holding misses, Hunk not giving him any recovery time when he pushes on his heels, propelling himself forward under Shiro’s chin. His head makes impact in a sickening crack, satisfying vibration dancing hard against his skull. Both their brains are rattling but the older man doesn’t give up.  He turns his head while Hunk is gearing for a swing. 

He isn’t prepared for the elbow in the face.

The move knocks the wind out of him, eyes focused on the twist of Shiro’s neck, like a wolf before snapping his jaw shut against the neck of its prey. If anyone asked, Hunk thinks he takes the next blow to the nose, open palmed and stinging hard, like a champ.

Shiro lets up enough to allow Hunk to attempt breathing from his nose. It fails miserably, a chunk of blood quickly flowing out. “You need to dodge, Hunk,” Shiro groans, moving fast to pull off his shirt and hold it up to him. Hunk takes the black cloth, sheepishly smile gracing his features as he gingerly applies it under his nose, face down.

There’s a comfortable silence between the two as they hop down from the ring, making it over to the small office Shiro uses whenever the run down joint is actually open. Hunk watches how his back muscles tighten with each step, broad and stark against his skin. He nearly wishes for that him, his body firm but covered in a softness he can’t seem to lose. Lance calls it baby fat that grew up. Pidge just calls him chunky. 

“You did better,” Shiro says, almost too quiet and Hunk nearly misses it. The compliment startles him, figuring the older man to be the Clint Eastwood of his life, hard hitter with a secret golden beater in his chest. 

Hunk smiles through the shirt, pressed tight against his lips. “Thanks.”

Shiro’s office is the size of Hunk’s bathroom, but significantly less relaxing and more of a drastic reminder of a principle. A half desk sits in the back, office chair bought at the estate sale across the street three years ago. The computer looks more than outdated, it’s practically a museum piece, and a gold plate engraved with  _ Dr. Shirogane Takashi _ greets them. Hunk never really asks why Shiro dropped that part of his life, so soon after getting his medical license. He feels, despite all the training and development between them, he doesn’t have the right to know.

Hunk takes a seat in the small couch, everything miniature in the enclosed space. He can’t stretch his legs out without coming in direct contact with the old wood of Shiro’s desk. 

“So, um. What’s up? Why the brutal training lately?” Hunk asks when the other man takes his seat as well.

Shiro has enough humanity in him to look guilty, finding the stain on the ugly material to Hunk’s right incredibly fascinating. “I’ve got some bad news, and some good news.”

“Bad news.” Hunk has played this game for five years now.

“Keith has been winning fights in your weight class. Consistently.”

_ “What." _  Hunk drops the shirt, blood long having since coagulated. He’s careful not to breathe through his nose. “Keith is two weight classes under me!”

Shiro shrugs, almost holding back the small smile that teases at the edge of his lips, an undamaged fondness for his ex pupil. Hunk feels the ugly stab of jealousy, gulping it down because that’s in the past. Hunk is here now.

“You know Keith. When he sets his mind to it--”

Hunk leans in, interrupting, “Aren’t there rules against this?”

Shiro looks unimpressed, reflecting his movement and leaning in close. “You know the underground doesn’t really have any rules.”

Groaning, Hunk lets his head fall against the desk, spiking the remainder of Lance earlier today, The thought of the boy soothes him and hey, maybe it’s not so bad. “God,” he sighs. “He’s amazing.”

“Good news now?” Shiro asks, looking at Hunk with something gentle in his eyes. He’s too good for him.

“Hit me.”

“You got a fight with him at the end of the month.”

It takes a second, the clock slows down, Hunk’s breathing centers, his body moves in a universe not their own. “You got me a fight,” he whispers, wide eyed at the man carrying him through what started as a simple hobby to a full future goal. “You got me a fight? Is this Million Dollar Baby?”

Shiro rubs his temples but the grin is there for all to see, teeth poking through. “I knew you’d say something like that.”

“I could kiss you.”

“I’d rather you make those desserts you do whenever Pidge’s birthday comes around, because I can’t wait another six months--”

“Done!” Hunk’s smiling, feels his cheeks ache and the slight reminder that his nose is stuffed with dried blood. He gets up.

“I need to tell Pidge.”

Shiro waves him off, expressing that Hunk needs to be training nearly every day if he wants to even stand a chance against the smaller competitor. He agrees, nearly skiping on his way home.

He’s halfway to his home, ignoring the chill of Autumn air when he pulls his cellphone out, fully intending to call Pidge to see three texts from Lance.

_ I told her I wasn’t interested. You’re right, I do this every time LOL. _ __  
_ Hey dude, have you done the physics homework yet? _ _  
_ __ Wanna do it together? I can bring my sleeping bag. You’re not working this weekend right?

Hunk forgets to call Pidge until Monday evening.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let's fight it out, my man


	3. II - jesus walks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bite into the meat of violence and victory, Hunk. Eat them whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BAM. ONLY ONE DAY BEHIND NOW. Happy Hance week everyone!!  
> Also, if you like my writing (but with me proofreading it), consider[commissioning me!](http://ghostering.tumblr.com/commission)
> 
> WARNINGS:  
> Violence, Drinking, Language

Hunk can feel Lance’s stare, boring holes deep into his neck that seer. He can hardly hear Lance breathe, barely hear anything over the ringing in his ears. “Are those new?”

He’s referring to the dark purple that mars under Hunk’s skin, blossoming with such fever that it’s hot to touch. Lance does, in fact, reaching thin beautiful fingers, leaving him breathless, to gently sweep against his exposed thigh under his shorts. The fingers are cool, like ice against the burning skin and he almost makes a whine of pleasure. Lance is having none of it, of the indirect eye contact, of the constant nervous swipe of Hunk’s nose. He’s waiting, eerily quiet as they sit in his bedroom, TV the only source of light between them.

Hunk looks at Lance, the lines of his growing frown, the pretty scatter of freckles that pop louder at contact with the sun. They clutter to his nose, tracing softly against his lower lashes in a constellation Hunk can connect with thumbs. “Yeah.”

Lance doesn’t look surprised, why should he? He’s seen Hunk in the last couple months in different stages of wounded, had originally expressed concern until he explained he had eccentric hobbies. The extent Lance doesn’t know, other than Hunk seems to take a beating and almost  _ enjoy _ it from the way he gathers a wistful look when asked. He can’t reminisce this time, something drowning him in the way object of his unwitting affection narrows his eyes. 

Describing his eyes like an ocean is so overdrawn that Lance nearly gags whenever he hears the compliment. Hunk thinks the description is shallow and inaccurate. Lance’s eyes are nothing like the ocean he embodies the spirit of, but rather the space, with all it’s infinite possibilities and how if Hunk looks for too long, he feels as if he can’t breathe.

The fingers leave his thigh as Lance leans back against the couch they’re sharing. He exhales, shaky and Hunk hates how even that action is mesmerizing to him. He wants to lean forward and capture his lips. He wants to bruise his knuckles in his mouth. Instead, he looks at his hands, trying to feel guilty. 

“Go easy on yourself,” Lance’s voice whispers, low against the static of the TV. “Okay?”

Hunk is in love, filling his lungs with unexplainable need to just--

“Okay.”

Lance nods, as if satisfied, his fingers remaining close to where Hunk’s palm lays open on the couch. He understands what he needs to do, weaves his own digits with his, hot and cold. Lance smiles, still looking directly at the TV but a faint color is picked up from flashes of white by the screen. Hunk almost entertains the idea of holding him, keeping him close and maybe take him to his fights. But Hunk knows better.

He’s a fighter, not a lover.

***

Shiro has organized him a fight with the high ranking heavyweight fighter Sendak at the end of the week. If Hunk beats him by the third round, Shiro would consider him well enough to attempt to take on Keith. He’s been working hard over the week, skipping out on a few classes, a couple of dinner dates with Pidge and a handful of tutoring sessions for physics with Lance. Everything he’s been doing, the split lips and bruised fists as been working towards this singular moment to prove himself.

Apparently he wasn’t the only one excited for the match. It’s being held under the old Paladin’s bar, a place Hunk hasn’t stepped foot in since his last competition. It’s a fancy business, run by a man named Coran on the ground level. The bar is clean, easy on the eyes with the dim lighting and bartender’s carefree attitude. It’s downstairs that the party gets started, large enough to fight a concert hall. There’s a fighting ring, caged metal and all, that sits in the middle of the wooden basement. It’s significantly less clean than the upstairs but equally, if not more pleasing. The betting, bar and order is all handled by Coran’s niece, Allura. She’s a beautiful but distant, more interested in watching the fights than interacting with the audience. Hunk finds her presence calming before a match.

The noise is deafening, Hunk can hear the crowd from the bathroom where he stands gripping the sink and working to keep his breakfast in. He dry heaves a few more times before washing his face and staring at his reflection in the mirror. He hasn’t told anyone about this fight, not even Pidge in fear of jinxing his luck. Sendak is known to be a hard hitter, favoring his left hand to slug his opponents right out of the ring. 

“You okay?” Hunk hadn’t heard Shiro come in, focus stunted at keeping his breathing steady. He shakes his head. 

Shiro presses a cool glass against his forehead. “Drink up,” his makeshift coach says, an understanding look in his eyes. Hunk nods, taking the alcohol and swallowing it down with a grunt. 

“Wish me luck?” He says, looking at Shiro just as the nervous kid he was all those years ago, standing outside his closing gym, tears in his eyes and knuckles black and blue and red--

“You don’t need it.” 

Hunk hopes that when he ages, that the scars leave his body and his bones heal right, he can be as collected as Shiro is.

When he exits the bathroom, the crowd gets silent before hands are on him. They’re warm, too hot against the bare skin of his chest, pulling and pushing him in the direction of the ring. Sendak is waiting for him, finishing a beer and shooting him a cocky smile. Hunk wishes Lance was in the crowd, giving him that lovely smile he shares when he’s relaxed. 

Hunk is not relaxed.

He crawls under the rope, entering the mat covered surface, rolling his shoulders and checking the tapings around his knuckles. Sendak stands straight and the crowd screams for him. Hunk hears no chanting of his name, he’s the underdog, freshmeat that only got this fight, they must think, with personal connection to Allura.

The fight begins with a resounding smack, Sendak’s fist connecting with Hunk’s shoulder. The skin ripples and the pain is nearly nonexistent, with the fire bleeding into his veins. Hunk comes back quickly, making for the other’s right side, weaker defense. The attack fails, Sendak seeing through it and backing up to steps to kick Hunk in the abdomen. The blow knocks him back against the ropes, nearly bouncing him back into enemy arms. Sendak is grinning, barely a sweat on his brow.

“Come on, big man.” The comment angers him like nothing else, sets his blood to boil and eyes to narrow. He hisses between recently healed lips. He wishes Lance was watching him.

Hunk gets beaten down as soon as they’re close again, Sendak keeping his right side distanced and proceeding to slamming him down over and over. Through grinding teeth, Hunk takes the hits, setting a stronger defense. His feet move into the position he’s familiar with, the one Shiro trained into every muscle of his body. He loses the tension, letting himself uncurl and loosen, the blows becoming easier and easier to dodge.

Sendak’s fights never last more than a couple of rounds. Shiro figured it might be due to shit endurance.

He was right.

Hunk sees the opening with the holiness of Moses parting the Red Sea. It dances in his vision and when he strikes, Sendak is thrown off by his momentum. They’re tumbling down in seconds, Hunk climbing on top of him and immediately bringing his fist down on his nose. There’s a  _ crack _ but he doesn’t let up, pulling his arm back to bring it down again. Sendak fights him, clawing at his arms and neck but Hunk has the drive, the intention to win no matter how much he feels as if he’s losing himself. A fist connects with his lip, irritating the scar, making him taste blood. He doesn’t stop until Sendak’s hands fall to his side.  

The audience is hushed, a conjoined inhale heard as Allura makes her way to the ring. She leans down beside Hunk, gives him a knowing look and begins the countdown. 

When she hits three, the universe collapses and Hunk raises both hands in victory. 

The drinks were on Coran, filling his cup over and over as Shiro treats his wounds, tells him to take it easy there, he’s done well. Hunk can barely hear the praise with the way his blood rushes in his ears. He’s won, he’s beaten one of the best in his class, he’s going to fight  _ Keith _ . 

Hunk is offered a couple of rides home, refusing them all for the brilliant idea of seeing if Lance was up. This was a moment, he can tell from the air he breathes, this was a moment to share. He stumbles down their small town streets, the steps ingrained in his being. He can picture it now, in his drunken state, Lance waiting at the door and mothering over him, the way he does whenever Hunk shows up with a black eye. He’s make him sit on the couch, give him something to eat, complain about class. 

Hunk doesn’t realize he’s been ringing Lance’s doorbell for more than a few minutes. Lance lives in a small apartment complex provided by the university. The lock to the front door has been broken for years, so Hunk has no trouble entering the brick building and climbing three flights of stairs.

“Lance!” He calls, a goofy smile on his face, large and covered with specks of blood. He feels light on his feet.  When Lance does answer, he looks just as much as a mess. 

“What..?” He asks, eyes blinking at Hunk. Shit, it must be late. 

“Sorry,” Hunk immediately apologizes, hating himself. Sure, this was his big moment but fuck, Lance works like three jobs.  _ Why did he wake him up? _

Lance shakes his head, leaning against the door and Hunk gulps at how he looks draped against the frame. “No, don’t apologize man. Come in.”

Hunk moves with a routine, entering the small room and heading straight for Lance’s bed. “You look fucked up,” is Lance’s voice behind, muffled and small, dream-like. 

“But,” Hunk sings, turning to look at the man from his position on the bed, stomach flat against the covers. “I’m a winner.”

Lance looks confused before giving him a small smile. “Sure you are buddy. You need sleep.”

“Definitely,” Hunk mumbles, teeth nibbling on the fabric of Lance’s bed. His room is tidier than usual, means someone was over. The thought spikes something sour in his mood. He sits up abruptly, startling Lance who has taken a seat next him on the bed. “You know what I need?”

Lance is laughing, Hunk probably looks ridiculous but he doesn’t give a fuck right now. “What, big man?”

Hunk likes the sound of his voice, the laugh and the burning stars in his eyes. He can’t remember ever reading poetry but even in his drunken state, he can’t stop spouting it. 

“You,” he whispers, licking the blood off his lips. Lance hears him, despite the background noise of a shared complex. His eyes widen impossibly, red splotches appearing along his freckles, stark against his dark skin. 

He opens his mouth, probably to ask what Hunk means but it’s better to show than tell he thinks. Hunk surges forward, catching Lance’s lips in his own. It stings the cut but that only enhances the sensation. Lance’s lips are soft, expected with his obsession with moisturizing. Hunk hopes he’s as pleasant to feel.

The taller doesn’t respond at first but soon they're kissing. And then there’s tongue and then they’re making out. Lance’s hands snake their way up Hunk’s chest, cold against the fire of his skin. He realizes he’s been shirtless since the fight, walked through the frigid night but still burned inside out. Hunk uses his body to press him against the wall, tight and firm and that earns him a small whimper.

“Hunk,” Lance pants when they separate briefly before Hunk is devouring him again, teeth clicking against each other. They change position to make it easier, Lance tilting his head and digging fingers into his hair, and  _ fuck _ that’s hot. 

“I just,” Hunk mutters, moving down Lance’s jaw to suck the skin. He squirms under him, legs spreading to allow Hunk to fit between them. “Let me take care of you.”

Lance’s body stills, stops Hunk’s breathing in panic before there’s a small nod. Something swells in Hunk’s chest, thick and meaty and maybe lovely. “Okay,” he responds, moving down to suck a hickey onto Lance’s neck.

“Okay,” Lance whispers back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> they'e gonna do it in the butt next time lmao


	4. III - through the night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In something small, Hunk finds God cradled in Lance's hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have never wrote a sex scene this long and I also can't write sex scenes.
> 
> WARNING:  
> Explicit! Unbeta'd Sex

There are a few truths that Hunk leads his life by, the importance of the past being his main. He learns another one today, as his lips work against the restless current of the other’s mouth.

Loving Lance is easier than fucking him.

Lance has this charm, a gravitational pull that works with and against him to bring a steady stream of willing partners. He’s gentle, long delicate fingers dancing around whatever table he’s placed at, laugh a melodic tune that has Hunk leaning it. He’s easy to fall in love with, drown in what makes Lance  _ Lance _ . Hunk thinks he was in love from their first physics class, lost in the wandering planets of blue eyes, split lip making a mess of himself.

Fucking him requires more self control.

Hunk, he decides as he pulls the sharp ankles of Lance’s dark legs past himself, bringing their groins together, does not have any form of helpful self control. He’s an animal, not primitive and biting, but vibrating with energy, the savage thrill of winning burning deep into his guts. He wants to share this moment with Lance, wants him to feel the drunk power of victory, the glory of breaking a jaw under his knuckles. See, Hunk has a deep violence in him, cruel and unnatural and god, he wants it gone but it’s part of him, heavy and meaty and leaking with red fury. He wants Lance to eat it with him, the raw meat of strength and adrenaline. He wants Lance to fall in love with him.

Hunk almost believes he has, from the hypoxic look in his eyes, sucking the air from his lungs. His lips are raw, bright red in the minimal lighting leaking from under the doorway. Lance is unbelievably  _ pretty, _ which nearly infuriates Hunk, that something like Lance exists to be loved and here he was, taking with no real right. He’s a beast, demanding the best and offering nothing in return. He feels like Oedipus, a fakeness to his savagery that doesn’t click with his bones. Lance kisses him mid thought, almost aware of Hunk drifting, He’s thankful for it because his lips are cool, a contrast to Hunk, and so so soft, pleasant pushes against his mouth and a casual peek of tongue.  

Clinging to it comes as a natural response, sucking at the appendage until Lance yields, lets the wetness of his mouth pool and fall slightly, It’s erotic, the guy’s lack of self control, makes Hunk harden worse in his sweatpants and fuck--

“Lance,” he mumbles, kissing softly in small quick intervals because maybe it’s the alcohol but maybe there’s just something poisonous about Lance that has Hunk reaching into his pants to grip the base of his own cock, hold himself back.

Lance watches the trailing of his hand, past his naked chest, over the abdomen and into joggers. His eyes are focused, sharp even in the night as he traces the movement. Hunk feels on fire, keeping locked with him as his fingers begin to move, stroking himself. He appreciates it, Hunk can tell, because Lance leans up from his spot against the wall, pulling his knee to his chest so a sock covered heel dig at Hunk’s thigh. It makes him stroke a little faster, a little harder until his hand is being pushed away, Lance’s foot grinding Hunk’s dick through the fabric. He’s not big on feet, doesn’t really get the fetish, but something about it being Lance’s foot, attached to Lance’s body, is so sexy, he can’t explain. He’s grinding against him, rubbing the sweatpants hard against him and fuck, maybe he could come like this. Lance doesn’t give him the chance though, pulling his foot away to scoot closer until Hunk rested back comfortably between his thighs, cool against the heat of his exposed hip. 

It isn’t until he leans down, bending his body to catch Lance’s lips again that he realizes he’s been babbling, things like  _ you’re so hot _ and  _ let me fuck your mouth _ which, despite Hunk’s rather lazy and leisure view on sex, didn’t feel so out of character when it was with the other. 

Lance’s hands wrap around his neck, pulling them chest to chest. His breathing is slow, smells like he was sleeping and Hunk knows he’s worse, alcoholic and metallic, hardly sexual. Lance doesn’t seem to mind, kissing the blood on his lips, dipping his tongue against the wound. Hunk hisses, letting fingers ghost around the growing stubble on his face.

“Lance,” he says for what feels like the millionth time and also the first time. “Do you want-?” The question is incomplete, but so is Hunk and holistically speaking, so is everything and nothing, and just enough something. He’s mumbling, can’t stop himself from talking. Lance shuts him up with his fingers, pinching his lips closed. He smiles and Hunk falls in love again.

“Yes,” he whispers, grinning. “Hunk, man. Relax.” Hunk stops tensing his muscles, bending himself forward to laugh into Lance’s collar. He feels a swipe at his head, playful and nothing like Sendak’s earlier knock. “Your fucking face hairs are tickling me.”

“You like it,” Hunk sings, purposefully rubbing his chin into the lacquer of his throat. “You find it sexy.”

“As sexy as a cactus,” Lance mutters into his pillow. Hunk takes it as a cue, moves large hands down Lance’s sides, feeling the muscle and soft skin, the sudden jut of his hip bones, down to rest light on his ass. He seems to like it, squirms to push Hunk more firmly and he doesn’t complain, fingers tightening around the flesh, bringing him closer.

Hunk wonders, as he sinks his teeth into the meat of Lance’s neck, if he could put him wholly in his mouth. Wants to swallow him up, keep the ice of his skin in his chest and the vastness of space under his tongue. He’s never felt this strongly about much of anything except fighting, not since he was banging at Shiro’s door, broken and sobbing. He’s almost terrified of it, despite smiling into Lance’s chest, moving slowly to discard his pants. Hunk likes the way the fabric looks moving slowly down his legs, calves firm from track meets and constantly being on his feet. It’s hot, incredibly sexy, Hunk’s mouth waters until he latches his teeth there too. 

“Fuck,” Lance hisses, thighs trembling as he kisses the bitemark, enjoying how light red blooms against his skin. Lance would look good in a fight, but better with Hunk over him. 

When the pants are finally gone, Lance is left only in his boxers. His face expresses none of the smoothness Hunk’s seen at parties or in class. He looks vulnerable, open wide for Hunk to crawl into his chest. He’s panting hard from his mouth despite barely being touched. 

Without much thought, Hunk gets low and nuzzles the obvious hardness, obscene. Hunk mouths at it, enjoying how the cloth wets under his tongue. He looks up at him and grins, goofy and drunk and maybe a little more. “Ever feel a cactus against your junk?”

The question throws Lance into a fit of hysterics, laughing hard enough for tears to prick at the corner of his eyes. “ _ Cabrón _ ,” he snorts, trapping Hunk between his thighs at as retaliation. Hunk can’t stop smiling, even when he pulls down the boxers and sucks Lance’s dick into his mouth. 

The response is immediate and breathtaking.

Lance’s thighs tremble against his cheeks, his toes curl against Hunk’s back. He uses his hand to wrap around the base of his cock, tight how he likes it, and uses his tongue to lap at the tip, collecting the pre-cum and looking directly at him. His pupils are blown, Hunk can see even in the mostly dark. There’s no preamble when he takes Lance fully in his mouth, no warming but the sudden groan from Lance tells him he’s doing something right.

Both hands reach to bare down on his hips, keep him from thrusting into Hunk’s mouth and gagging him. He wants to go slow, wants to watch him crumble with some sick need for him to break. The thought feels like a strike to his cheek, acute and nearly makes Hunk stop. He’s palms begin to sweat, his movement more disjointed as he works to get out of that mindset. He’s not in a fight, he’s in bed with his best friend. He’s freaking out.

Lance, with quiet hands, pulls at Hunk’s face, moving him away from the shit blowjob and into his arms. Hunk is big, really  _ big _ and Lance is  _ not _ . He’s stretched, tall and lean and surreal but Hunk is keenly aware that with a twist of his wrist, he could really break something.

He lets himself be held though.

Hunk doesn’t know how they get started again, just falls into awe watching Lance finger himself. He does it quickly, almost a routine and Hunk wants to ask, about the clean room and the practice but his mouth is too busy hanging open to pant.

“Lemme see,” he whines when Lance’s thighs close, almost shy-like. He blinks at Hunk before a grin erupts on his face, as sleazy as possible. It makes Hunk roll his eyes.

“You gotta earn it.”

So Hunk fucking does, snapping forward at a speed Lance wasn’t use to, startling him into a small shriek as his thighs are forcefully pulled apart by large hands. Hunk raises an eyebrow at him, grinning as the heat of his hands work the muscles under Lance’s skin. “Don’t be a tease.”

Lance breathes in sharply, staring at Hunk as he starts up again, fingers dipping into himself. It turns him on so much, Hunk thinks he’s going to die before they even actually fuck.

He does make it though, watching Lance hunt around for a condom not denting him in the slightest. “You don’t just have a box?”

Lance throws a sock at him while continuing to look through his drawer. “I just cleaned, I moved everything like a dumbass.” Hunk nods like he understands and feigns exaggerated excitement when one is found. 

Pushing Lance back down under him feels natural, like maybe in a past life they used to have sex all the time, or in a future where they will. It’s an odd thought as he slowly works his way into him, careful to the small grunts. He’s surprisingly quiet once Hunk bottoms out, breathing shallowly and staring at where they connect. Worry strikes at his face, that maybe Lance is in pain, maybe having sex with a man just wasn’t his thing. Maybe Hunk wasn’t his thing.

The silence stretches until Lance looks up at Hunk from under his lashes, telling him everything without a word slipping through his lips. He knows the answers then, hands coming up to grip bruising hips and pulling him closer. 

Lance has a thing for his hands, moaning more when Hunk tightens his fingers. His own hands cling to his bed frame over his head, knuckles nearly white. Hunk wants to kiss them, each bone individually. 

Apparently, he gets fed up with the slow pace Hunk has set, interlocking his ankles behind him and pushing the bigger man against him with more force. “I won’t break,” he whispers, a shock against how quiet he’s become. 

Hunk wants to tell him that he breaks everything he loves, that it’s inevitable but maybe,  _ just maybe _ they can pretend together. 

He fucks Lance with abandon, opening him up and pulling him close, enjoying the bends of his knees to nearly touch his chest. The harder Hunk drives into him, the harder he holds him, the louder Lance becomes until he’s practically screaming, head shaking side to side furiously. 

There’s banging on the side of the wall, washed out in the background when Lance suddenly surges up, wrapping his arms around Hunk’s neck and slotting their mouths together. He sits on his lap, pushing himself down on his cock while Hunk thrusts up, giving each other open mouthed kisses between grunts. 

His dick, swollen and weeping, is trapped between them tightly, rubbing against the softness of Hunk’s abdomen. 

“Hunk,” Lance plees into his mouth, licking his bottom lip. “Dude,  _ I need- _ ” Hunk nods because fuck, he’s so close. He picks up the pace, nearly bouncing Lance off of him if not for the way he’s wrapped himself around him.

He’s crying a little, Hunk realizes, probably from being overwhelmed. He leans up, touching their foreheads together in makeshift comfort, desperate and tender. Lance softens in his hold, mouth falling open as half lidded eyes look down.  Hunk cradles the back of his neck, keeps him grounded, here with him on the earth when Hunk knows with a feeling of finality, that Lance doesn’t belong with soil under his feet, but with the missing satellites the orbit their world. It was then, Hunk understood, that wherever Lance would go, he would undoubtedly follow.

“Lance, I lov--”

Lance organsms and it’s a surprise to them both, his lashes fluttering and his head ducking low as he curls into himself, digging his nose into the junction of Hunk's neck. He bites hard and Hunk is gone.

Maybe fucking Lance is harder than loving him, requires more thought and careful watch. But maybe fucking Lance was a religious experience and Hunk just got baptized. 

***

Hunk wakes up with a start. He’s disoriented with ceiling, he’s not at home. He turns his head to see Lance, tight between him and the wall, back faced to him and breathing steady. 

He sits up abruptly, cringing at the flourishing bruises on his abdomen and hands. He takes one more panicked look at Lance, hardly stirred from all the movement and gets up, digging around for a shirt that would fit him. 

As he opens the door, something deep compels him to look back. Lance is facing him now, eyes open and face so calm and watchful. “I’m sorry,” Hunk all but whispers. He turns away when Lance begins opening his mouth and bolts.

By the time he reaches the gym, banging on the door for Shiro to please, open up,  _ I fucked up, Shiro please _ , he thinks he might be crying. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> they did it in the butt but also caught the feelings i guess wow


	5. V - alright

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a certain complexity to his disposition that doesn't allow Hunk to grapple with how small and lovely this all is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry im so slow with not much too offer, this is a nice bridge chapter with my favorite one coming up next. hance is so important and so is hunk and please look at the artworks by jasjuliet@tumblr and vvorlock@tumblr because guys, holy shit.
> 
> Next chapter features: Keith, fucking Keith and more Hance, and the past and truths and Pidge and Shiro and a FIGHT.
> 
> Warnings:  
> UNBETA'd

Hunk trains harder than he’s ever had.

Shiro has placed him on a strict regimen, pushing him to his limits and beyond. His muscles constantly ache, his body continuing to feel strain even when he manages to sleep for a few hours. He hasn’t been to class for a while now, putting him behind his peers. He’s been handling it well though, working around his increasing training schedule to at least memorize the physic equations. It used to come so naturally to him, like fighting in the ring, like falling in love with Lance.

He hasn’t spoken to Lance since that night a week ago.

Ignoring the text messages were the most difficult, the quiet questions of  _ Hunk?  _

_ Where are you Hunk?  _

_ I miss you.  _

_ Did I do something? _

_ Dude let’s talk about it. _

_ Are we still friends? _

The last one nearly killed him, had Hunk staring at the blinking of his phone late into the night. The screen acted as a taser, shocking him awake with a sudden desire to close himself off into nothing. He was acutely aware a part of him was dying, probably the best part.

Lance gets the message quickly, it seems. The concerned texts abruptly stop, around the same time that Hunk has missed class for three days in a row. He disappears from Hunk’s vision, no longer crowds his peripheral with loud grins and delicate long fingers. The distance feels like an eternity, a tomb in which Hunk has brought all his possessions but nothing of his heart to be buried with him. He funnels the feeling into rage, something he’s much more familiar with.

Shiro notices it, says things like “You’re hitting harder than usual” and “Don’t forget to breathe, Hunk.” But fuck--he does, he does forget to breathe. He’s drowning in something vast and humorless that erupts into cold around him. His limbs feel dead and useless against it but he swallows the salt and pushes forward. Shiro promises him another fight by the end of a week, a week and a half before Keith. It’s a practice match with one of Haggar’s pride fighters, a small group of ex-boxers that circle their prey like sharks who smell blood.

A day before the match, Hunk finds himself lazily sitting beside Pidge as she works, fingers moving gracefully against her keyboard. They’re in a comfortable silence, with Hunk’s eyes slowly shutting, lulled by the pressing clicks and the soft hums of machine.

“Have you talked to Lance lately?” The question is as violent as Hunk’s fists, critical and brutal and there’s internal bleeding maybe. 

“What?” Is all Hunk can say, eyes snapping completely open to look at his short friend.

“I’ll take that as a no,” Pidge hums, eyes not once leaving her screen as she works, swiftly switching between the two monitors in front of her.

“Yeah,” Hunk nods, trying to steady the heavy weight on his chest, a balancing act that cracks his ribs. “We haven’t spoken much.”

Pidge pauses her typing causing his palms to sweat. She turns to look at him, her eyes unimpressed. “Any particular reason?”

“We just grew apart is all. You know,” he gestures vaguely around him. “We have different goals and stuff.”

The silence is no longer comfortable, rather it’s deafening, a screaming that is only on Hunk’s frequency. “Grew apart, huh?” She  _ knows _ something, he can tell. Her face remains a still passive sheet. “He asked me to talk to you, you know.”

Hunk laughs, nervous and unsettled. There’s a body attached to his legs, the twisting bruises that grip his ankles and drag him down, a constant reminder of the past. “Did he?”

“Did you get scared?”

The words are so innocent alone, Hunk almost doesn’t put them together. When he does, it’s horrific, causes him to push himself forcefully from the desk to stand up, knocking the wooden chair behind him to the ground. It falls with a whine of protest, cracking against the floor in an echo. He ignores how hot the stares of others make him. 

“No,” he whispers, trying to calm his shakes, the small tremors that settle at the dips of his toes into his shoes.

Pidge watches him, fingers tightening around a pencil. She’s breathing through her nose. “Hunk,” she says, and her voice breaks in a way Hunk can’t stand, can remember the dim lighting of her father’s funeral and the quiet that took her for months. She says his name like a prayer to something greater than himself, as if Hunk is an accumulation of divine retribution. He wants to tell her he’s just a man, a fumbling useless man who can provide her only small bits of hollowed and recycled love. Pidge doesn’t need to hear it, she already knows the day she met him, cowering in the corner of Shiro’s gym, chin tucked under his coat. “You need to let it go.”

Hunk refuses it. “Pidge, I’m  _ fine _ . This has nothing to do with it.”

“Don’t you dare lie to me,” she hisses and it burns like hot iron, searing his flesh. “You liked him, as in genuinely  _ liked  _ him.”

“I guess not as much as be both thought,” slips out and even Hunk cringes, the bitterness on his tongue is thick and warm, makes his gums swell. He should have swallowed it rather than spit it into Pidge’s awaiting mouth. She swallows it for both of them.

“You better get over this fast,” she mutters, stuffing her laptops in their respective bags. Hunk gets up to offer her help but is immediately denied. “Or you are going to regret this, Hunk.”

He shakes his head. “No, you will,” she all but growls at him, eyes narrow as her glasses are pushed up hard to the bridge of her nose. “This isn’t a repeat of Shay, Hunk. This isn’t a reminder of what you did.”

“Everything,” Hunk whispers as he holds the door open for Pidge. “Everything is a reminder. It doesn’t just go away, Pidge.”

“No, but it’s supposed to get easier. Please,” she looks at him before she exits, something vulnerable and sweet in her eyes, so foreign but Hunk knows it’s real and it’s for him. He thinks of Lance. “Don’t torture yourself anymore. You’re not the only one that’s suffering.”

She leaves him then, standing awkwardly by the door with white knuckles and a swollen lip around his teeth, trying not to cry.

***

The fight location is the same, the atmosphere is the same. Hunk catches Allura drinking casually from her stand by the bar. She looks bored, eyeing the gamblers with something Hunk thinks is disdain. It’s the purse of her lips, the cruel curl of her hair to frame her face. She looks dangerous. No wonder Shiro admires her.

“Hey,” she calls gently to Hunk, heard perfectly over the crowd despite the beginnings of an ongoing bar fight. He shuffles up to her, hands deep in his sweatpants, touching the bare skin of his thigh to calm himself. Allura smiles at him. “It’s a clean fight. Just some random from Haggar’s crew.”

“Yeah,” he nods, looking around at the audience. They smell blood in the water, already taking seats around the ring. He finds himself wishing again, that Lance was here. That maybe, Pidge is right, and if they just talked and Hunk just got  _ over _ it, they could--

“You look out of it.”

Hunk snaps his neck to look at her, her drink now finished.  She gets up to pat him on the back. 

“Good luck today,” she smiles out, low and slow and maybe more erotic than Hunk can stand tonight. “Go easy on the guy.”

He’s confused but smiles back at her anyway. 

***

Hunk regrets this fight.

He gets banged up hard at first, his body taking a beating almost as savage as Sendak. He’s moving slower than usual, aware that he’s making rookie mistakes when another fist collides with his nose, nearly snapping the bone in half. Hunk hits the taunt ropes three times, colliding with bruising force against his ribs.

Shiro is yelling at him, the ringing in his ears unable to drown it out. This feels nothing like his fight with Sendak, there’s no honor, no real valor. Hunk takes another blow under his chin and sees stars. He wonders if Lance is sitting in his small dorm room, waiting by his phone for something, a sign. He’s really into signs, believes that people can have omens. As a fighter, Hunk thinks he understands, hitting the ground, his body heavy under the weight of the first truth he’s learned with an eerie sense of calmness watching over him.

See, Hunk has a violence in him, deep boned and bleeding something foul, sticks to his knuckles and splits his lip, but he’s in love with Lance. And Lance, he realizes as he gets up from the mat, pushing into a more defensive position, Shiro’s yelling falling quiet in the crowd. Lance, for some horrific and unexplainable reason, by some exploding star or atmospheric pressure, the pains of gravity and the fall of galaxies, loves him back. Lance is in love with him, with his tender fingers tracing the bruises of his hand, the easy smile that carries into his eyes and settles in the deep roots of Hunk’s heart. Hunk may be grounded on who he is, aware of his sins and past failings, with an endless fear of the future but Lance is too vast to resist, allows no room for being afraid and demands a recklessness that Hunk wants to feel outside the ring.

When he looks at him, lazy and laughing, arms inviting with a presence of not only God, but everything between, Hunk understands. 

The next punch he throws knocks his opponent out. Hunk thinks he saw a tooth fly and smiles.


	6. VI - drugs you should try it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hunk was an angry kid and Lance is something grand and endless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we are so close guys!!!  
> thanks for all the support for this fic and patience. i've never been more blessed with such kind people.
> 
> WARNING:  
> Past Violence

Lance doesn’t respond to his texts.

The idea of being ignored blindsides Hunk. He’s considered facing hostility, maybe mild irritation because Lance doesn’t really get vengeful, just pouty. After the third message of  _ Hey, can we talk? _ that goes unanswered, he begins to feel a little remorseful of pulling this fucking stunt earlier. It’s almost horrific, looking at the empty response box, the other’s usual ability to respond in seconds haunting him. It’s blatant, Hunk is being punished, rightfully so, but he’s agitated about it nonetheless.

He can’t ask Pidge for help, knows this is something he has to repair himself, using the thickness of his skin and the burning of calloused fingertips. He has to tread lightly, he has to be purposeful, from the moment his eyes meet Lance’s once again. 

Shiro watches him closely when he takes a break to check his phone, the fifth time the day after his underdog fight. “Waiting for something?”

“Huh?” Hunk asks, not looking up from his messages as he refreshes Lance’s name over and over. 

Shiro raises an eyebrow, walks up to him and clasps Hunk on the shoulder. The touch is weirdly intimate for them, he’s more used to a flying fist. “I think we should minimize your training to weekends and weeknights, since we only have a week left.”

Hun looks up, confused. “I mean,” Shiro continues, wearing a smile that reminds Hunk that no matter how much he grows, he’s always that sobbing kid banging on Takashi’s door. “Go back to your classes. I’m sure you have a lot to catch up on.”

It’s obvious, even Shiro knows what Hunk’s chasing. He grins. “Thanks.”

A light colored blush dusts over his cheeks, makes him look away from Hunk in what he assumes is shame. Hunk thinks that Shiro might be the greatest man he’s met in his life.

***

Lance has moved.

When Hunk strolls into class for the first time in weeks, there’s an awkwardness to him. His nose is bandaged up well, making his voice sound off and ugly in his ears, and there’s a desperation in the way he carries himself. He ignores the mild whispering and climbs up the stairs just to notice Lance doesn’t sit there anymore. 

In fact, judging by the melodic laughter that rings through Hunk’s ears in such familiarity he almost goes weak in the knees, Lance has moved to the back, surrounded himself with individuals Hunk is lost to. He goes unnoticed, blue eyes never meeting his pleading ones and when he finally shuffles through the row to a seat, he feels something inside him rage. It’s a good rage though, the kind that makes him fight against a hollowness in his chest, makes him win the fight. 

He goes through the lecture with relative ease, finding that maybe he’s not too bad at physics. When the professor begins packing, Hunk whips around to see Lance already making a beeline to the door. He rushes to follow, nearly dropping his books in a hurry to shove everything into his bag.

“Lance!” He calls to the retreating form, weaving his way through the mass of students. The body flow appears to work against him, pushing hard and fast, jarring him out of his focus. In a last ditch effort, reaching close enough to see the small dance of freckles that hide under Lance’s collar, Hunk reaches out.

The coolness of his skin comes as a shock after being absent from his life for a period. It freezes Hunk’s grip, makes it tight and statues him. His breathing nearly holts until Lance, just as shaken from the contact, swiftly turns to face him.

Hunk has never seen Lance look angry. He’s seen the playfulness, the coy teasing and the childish pouting. There were times when he was annoyed and used his body to curl into himself, but never like this. Lance looks at him now as something monstrous, a fire as hot as an erupting star, but falling into itself to implode. A quiet silence, sucked into the vacuum of space. There’s no air to breathe in Lance’s eyes, no sunlight to warm his skin. He drops his wrist as if he’d been burned.

“Lance,” Hunk whispers, growing shyer under his gaze, shoulders hunching. “I wanted to talk.”

The man regards him as a piece of fish at the market, staring intently before  _ aha! _ the rot shined through, picked up the foulness in Hunk’s wet insides to know better and move on. Hunk feels gutted and exposed. He wants to love, god he wants Lance to love him.

“What?”

Hunk doesn’t know what to say, just stares at the vastness of Lance’s eyes, the horrific reminder that nothing can live in space, and although Hunk isn’t  _ nothing _ , he might not be  _ something _ to Lance anymore. He swallows down the bile that rushes up his throat.

“Can we talk?” Lance narrows his eyes immediately, twisting his body that held none of the gracefulness Hunk has associated with him over their budding friendship. It’s jagged, forced and Hunk is flashed images of broken bones lying on the mat, turned in ways unnatural.

Lance purses his lips, almost sneering. There’s no real malice to it and the more Hunk hangs around, he realizes the anger is not directed at him, but is internal. Lance is angry with himself and fuck, they are so similar, down to their hatred for themselves. Hunk finds the strength. “Let me stop by your dorm tonight.”

He looks unsure. “I don’t know, dude. I might not be around,” he vaguely mumbles, looking anywhere but him. Hunk nods. 

“Wait for me?”

He doesn’t wait for Lance’s response, turns on his heels and makes his way down the long corridor of people to exit the building. He misses him mouthing ‘always’ into his back.

***

Lance’s door number is missing, probably stolen during a drunken night. His door is far from bare though, scattered name tags made by the RA and cute little pictures from his friends. It’s a door just so very  _ Lance _ , inviting and radiating a steady fondness. It makes Hunk hesitate outside, fingers raised but never pushing forward to knock.

He’s scared, the same way before his fight with Sendak, that heavy rock at hides under his gut and bares down on his lower back. As he scans the door, it’s the small photo of him, grinning with a black eye in behind Lance taking a selfie, messing around before the professor showed up to class a month ago, that gets him knocking the door.

There’s movement on the other side. Hunk can see feet covering the light that slips under the door. Lance is standing there, the lock neither turning or a response given.

“Lance?” Hunk questions, reaching up to knock again. “Are you in?” They both know he’s in. 

“Yes.” It’s so soft and the screaming of a party in the room down the hall nearly blocks it out.

“Okay,” Hunk says. He knows what Lance wants so he turns his back to the door and slides down until he’s sitting on the ground, resting his weight on the wood. From the muted shuffling he hears, Lance also sits on his side.

“Go on,” Lance calls. “Talk.”

“I’m sorry,” Hunk says, because it’s a good start if any. “I’m sorry for leaving you after I-”

“Fucked my brains out?” 

Hunk smiles, knows that Lance was intentionally crude to get a rise out of him, knows that the little song at the end of the question was already showing promise, a humor to him even his rage cannot delete.

“Yeah, leaving after I gave you the best.”

“It was the best,” Lance mumbles. He imagines him picking at the carpet of his floor, fingers dipping anxiously at the small knots and pulling them loose. Hunk wonders if Lance will ever love his anxieties, love the hushed rage and the shyness. If Lance can love his uncertainty and bare his willingness.

“Why did you leave?’ 

The question is something he prepared for but when Hunk opens his mouth, it still catches sharp in his throat. “I’m not a good person, Lance.” His shoulder shakes and he thinks the tears burning at the back of his eyes might fall. 

After a pause where Hunk works to gather himself, Lance speaks. “Is this the part where you tell me you’ve ‘done somethings’?”

Hunk laughs, he can’t help it. “Yeah, this is that part.” His fingers work against the cold tile of the hallway. He tries to pretend it’s Lance’s fingers, like snow melting on his skin. “When I was younger, I was a really angry kid.”

Lance keeps quiet. 

“I had no real outlet for it. I took it out on my friends, on my family, anything I could.” Hunk lets his head hang low. “It was ugly, Lance. I was ugly and one time in elementary school-”

“Back in Hawaii?”

“Yeah,” Hunk says softly, a gently thrumming in his chest that Lance remembered. “Back home, there was this kid. He wasn’t that much bigger than me, but he had this, I don’t know, this  _ attitude _ , you know?”

He imagines Lance nodding before the “yes.”

“So, one day, and I had a really rough day with family and school and just everything. I had a lot of rough days as a kid.”

“I wish you didn’t,” comes the quiet reply. Hunk shuffles until he’s tight against the door, wishes he could feel the ice of Lance’s skin, hear the rapid beats of his heart. He wants to kiss him, wants to cradle his face in his hands, wants to press against his thigh just so to get him squirming. 

“I don’t,” Hunk whispers against the wood, hard pressed to his lips. “I don’t want to change a thing if it means I don’t meet you.” He hears the quick intake of breath, the small shaky laugh that he knows was not for his ears, was for Lance alone and the thought makes him feel lovely.

“This kid,” Hunk continues. “He was really pushing hard against me that day, and everything boiled over, man. My family’s stuff, my school work, the  _ teasing _ . It just blew up spectacularly, and I just. I beat the shit out of this kid, dude.” His voice is shaking. He hasn’t talked about this with anyone. Shiro is the only one who knows, with Pidge having a vague idea. “I beat him so bad, Lance. I,” Pause. “I couldn’t control myself. I mean. I just kept hitting him.”

_ “Hunk.” _

“Over and over. Until his face was unrecognizable, until it was a bloody pulpy mess under my knuckles.”

_ “Hunk,” _ Lance pleas, and he sounds sick, maybe tearful but only fools weep for the devil. Lance is no fool to Hunk, Lance is nothing but amazing.

“Anyway, I was so scared about what I had did. People started treating me differently, treating my family differently. We packed up and moved not a year later.”

“To here?”

“Yeah,” Hunk lets his head hit the door. “We moved here and things...they were working out. I was getting better, but fuck Lance, I was such an angry kid, even if it was the quiet anger.” Breathe, he reminds himself. “A met Shay in high school. My freshman year.”

“Shay?”

Hunk smiles, mind trapped in a past photograph. “She was beautiful, Lance. Built like a warrior, stronger than anyone I’ve ever met to this day. We fell into dating so easily but she had this shitty brother.”

Lance shifts behind the door, Hunk’s ears straining to pick up any movement. “I got into an argument over something, something stupid and that feeling came rushing back. I was so angry, loud and violent and fuck, he’s her  _ brother _ . You can’t treat your family like that.”

“Did you fight him?”

Hunk nods. “I nearly hospitalized him. It was Shay, pulling me roughly away that got me out of it. The look on her face,” Hunk drifts off, looking at the rough callouses on his fingers, pulling the skin tight. “I couldn’t face her. We haven’t talked in years.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I found Shiro that night, smoking outside his gym like he was planning on dying.” He thinks they’re both crying now. “He took me in, taught me fighting and ever since, I’ve been good, Lance. I’m good.”

“You are good,” Lance is quick to cut in, desperate sounding and large-like. He fills the hallway, blocks out the parties and college life. Hunk wants him to steal everything from him. “You’re amazing, Hunk.”

“I was scared,” he whispers. “Lance, I was so scared. You’re  _ something _ , you know? I know you think you’re not, but fuck, Lance, you are  _ something _ grand and endless.”

Lance hums, something sorrowful. “Hardly.”

“No, not hardly. The way you looked under me, I just. I woke up and panicked.”

He’s so quiet on the other side of the door, his body shuffling. Something deep compels Hunk, makes him squeeze his fingers into the gap between the door and the tiled floor. Lance’s long, thin fingers are waiting for him, the tips of his flesh colliding with the burning of Hunk’s. They stay like this for a long time, listening to each other’s breathing as their fingertips press tightly against each other.

“I have a big fight coming,” Hunk whispers into the wood, sure that Lance’s lips rest on the other side. “It’s important to me, something I’ve worked for. I want you to come.”

“Hunk--”

“Please. Just consider it.” He gets up, hearing Lance do the same. The picture of them smiling in class mocks him. “It’s in a week.”

Lance doesn’t respond as Hunk leaves the hallway, down into the street only to fall to the balls of his heels, holding himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh boy, he's gonna fight the big ol' keith-mobile.


	7. VII - guidance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hunk learns a new truth. That sometimes love teaches its lessons with broken bones and split lips and the endlessness of space.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, amirite? This chapter was incredibly difficult, as I have been having the worst case of writer's block. I've decided that this is not the end of the fic, but rather that an epilogue is in order to really wrap things up. Thanks for everyone who enjoyed this fic. I had a great time. Also, I've been thinking about working on a sheith prequel to this story. What do you guys think?
> 
> I have commissions to handle now. (If you're interested in commissioning me, [please read](http://ghostering.tumblr.com/commission)!)  
> Other notes: I listened to Travis Scott's new album throughout the entirety of this fic.
> 
> WARNINGS:  
> Unbeta'd, Some Violence

Hunk sits quietly at the end of his seat, legs draping over the edge, the bruises on his thighs looking sickeningly like melted plastic, blending together thickly. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth, pushing against the inside of his cheek nervously.

“This isn’t like you,” Shiro mumbles from his corner of the ring, the gym quiet without the echoing thumps of his feet. Hunk doesn’t like the way it rattles him.

“Then what  _ is _ like me?” 

Shiro clicks his teeth but doesn’t respond, choosing to straighten his back and roll his shoulders, stretching his muscles. Hunk marvels at the ripples of his neck, strong enough for him to think that if he wrapped his fingers around Shiro tight, he still wouldn’t win. 

He gets up and stretches, mirroring his coach’s steps. 

The fight is quick, three blows before Hunk’s world is spinning but he’s not down, god, he hasn’t been down since he’s heard Lance’s voice, quiet behind wood, muffled but lovely. Hunk thinks of him when his knuckles connect with the underside of Shiro’s jaw, imagines his smile, the white of his teeth, the shimmer of blue in his eyes.

When Shiro goes down, it’s to the sweet tune of  _ te amo _ . Hunk’s cheeks hurt from grinning. 

“Now  _ that’s _ ,” Shiro groans from his place on the floor, arms spread eagle-like, “more like you.”

The laughter that fills up the room makes him whole, gives him a lightness in his step he hasn’t felt in a few weeks. He reaches down to help Shiro up, using the balls of his heels to roll his weight in their favor. 

“Thanks,” Shiro mutters, brushing off invisible dust from his thighs before standing tall. “It’s good to see you like this again.”

Hunk takes a swing of water, trying not to choke at the fondness in the other’s voice. “Like what?”

“You look light.”

“I feel light,” he smiles around the bottle, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand when he finishes. “I told him to come.”

“Lance?”

Hunk nods. “To the fight. I hope he shows.”

There’s a silence that settles between them as they duck out of the ring, feet gently falling against the waiting mat as they shuffle towards Shiro’s office. “Who knows?” Hunk hears in front of him. “Maybe he’ll come in swinging.”

“I’d pay to see that.”

Shiro shoots him a raised eyebrow but Hunk shakes his head. “How’s Keith doing?”

“Winning,” is all he hears as Shiro reaches behind them on the shelf for the air tight box Hunk had brought him. The cookies smell as good as they did when they were fresh and there’s no time wasted as Shiro shoves a piece into his mouth. He talks through the crumbs. “He’s on a streak so if you beat him tomorrow, you’ll be--you’ll be…?”

“A god?” Hunk provides, unsure.

“Among men.”

Hunk sighs, reaching for his own cookie only to snap back his stinging palm. “Did you just smack me?”

Shiro is in a defensive position, tucking the container tight under his arm. “Yes,” he says but the fondness is there again.

There’s no question, Hunk happily accepts the challenge.

***

Walking into the underground ring almost feels anticlimactic after all the mental preparation he’s conducted to be ready for this fight. The crowd hasn’t been seated yet, people are mingling and shouting. Money and drinks are exchanging hands and Hunk stands, nearly lost in the crowd here to see him. He almost considers remaining hidden, digging his anonymity further into the sea of individuals. He wonders if they’ll carry him somewhere hopeful, somewhere dangerous.

“Hunk,” Allura calls to him, the way the crowd parts for her is mesmerizing. Hunk once wished he fell in love with her but now--

“Allura,” he greets back, reaching out to shake her hand. Her fingers wrap around his, small and delicate in his grasp, yet firm. The contrast in size makes him queasy. “Tell me you’re not betting on Keith.”

She gives him a smile but it’s all business, reminds him of the sharks that circle open waters. “I would be lying if I said I didn’t.” 

Hunk hums, unable to really argue. “Just you wait, I’m going to be amazing.”

“I have no doubt.”

The voice is surreal, faint like ocean waves that rush against his calves. He doesn’t dare turn his head to look at her, doesn’t release the deep breath he takes, lest he drown. “It’s been a long time, Hunk,” the voice says, but Hunk’s eyes are trained to his shoes, looks at the deep creases and bleeding colors that faint under the glow of the stadium lights.

“Shay,” he whispers, and it’s a prayer, a holy plea for forgiveness, a bearing against a cross he dares not touch against his skin, knows that the burn will bring him no relief from himself.

Shay’s feet move to stand right in front of him, Allura having vanished in the crowd. “Look at me Hunk.” Her voice is commanding but he’s so scared, worse than in any ring, to look into her eyes and see his own reflection. It’s been years, fuck, he’s not prepared, doesn’t have a story or a speech ready. Shay doesn’t seem to care. Her fingers move to rest heavy on his heated cheeks, warming him further and pull his head up for their eyes to meet.

Hunk’s breath rushes out of him as if he were dying. She’s  _ beautiful, _ her smile glowing up the whole of his vision, the firm muscle of her figure. She’s everything and nothing and sometimes he can’t believe he’s lost her. 

“You look good,” she says instead, and Hunk is pushed into motion. 

“No,” he whispers, reaching up to grip her fingers on his cheeks. “You look good. You look amazing.”

Shay laughs and it’s a chorus of church bells, reminding him of long summer nights in the car or cold evenings on her porch, joking about anything and everything. “I came to see you.” The words ring so wondrously inside him, rattles his heart against his ribs but he realizes acutely, that she was not the one he wished to hear those words from. Not anymore.

The smile on his face must make it obvious. “Will they be here tonight?”

Hunk shrugs, releasing her hands from his clutches. “I don’t know.”

“Well,” she gives him a sly smile, pulling him into a hug. “I’m here and you’re going to do amazing.”

Wrapping his hands around her is the easiest decision he’s made this week. “Thanks, Shay. I’m sorry.” His voice cracks but he can’t be bothered to worry about his appearance anymore. She rubs soothing circles between his shoulder blades, calming him.

“I know, Hunk. God, do I know.”

***

Hunk washes his face in the bathroom, shaking fingers gripping the sink until his knuckles are white. It’s nostalgic, remembers the same ritual from before with a little less vomit and a little more staring into the mirror, a look of determination burning onto his face.

Shiro is leaning beside him, two cups of whiskey in his hands. He waits until the faucet stops running before sliding one towards Hunk. He picks it up wordlessly, putting it down with only a small tear tickling the corner of his eye.

“You’ve been working on this--”

“Is this the part of my underdog film that you give me the motivational speech?” Hunk asks, setting the glass down with a smile, goofy enough for Shiro to mirror it.

“Oh fuck off, I was about to be inspirational.”

“I know you bet on Keith too.” Shiro shoots him a glare before melting into something indescribable.

“Is it obvious?”

Hunk reaches his hand up to take Shiro’s glass from his fingers, downing the contents in that one too. “No, but I know you guys have history.”

“Enough to write a textbook.”

“Yeah,” Hunk sighs, burping before stretching his arms wide. “Time to kick some ass.”

The crowd is waiting for him, chanting as he makes his way to the ring. Keith is there, black hair pulled back into a loose ponytail. His hands are wrapped and his fists punch the air, feet hopping left then right. He eyes Hunk with uncertainty before splitting into a small smile.

Hunk crawls onto the floor, pulling himself up into the ring and shooting Keith his own grin. When his jacket, loosely hanging on his shoulders, falls to the ground in his corner, bearing his naked chest, he begins to feel that familiar spark of adrenaline running through his system. Keith follows his position, standing at his corner firmly with his relaxed at his sides.

He’s thinner than Hunk would think, the same size he last saw him when he started practicing under Shiro. It’s weird, considering Keith has beaten people bigger than them both.

He doesn’t have much time to think about it before the bell rings and they start to circle each other. Keith makes the first move, rushing up to meet Hunk. He’s ready for it though, crouches to block the left swing and holds onto his hand. Keith is ready for it, uses his new position to bring his right foot, directly smashing into Hunk’s nose. 

He almost feels sorry for breaking it so often. A few more well timed body checks has Hunk hitting the floor, dizziness creeping at the edges of his vision, blood dribbling down his nose in gross clots. He hears the chanting, the demand for him to get up, that this buildup was too much to have him down in the first. Hunk doesn’t want to move, watches Keith shuffle a few feet away.

The chanting hurts his ears, angry shouts that teetor to shrill and blaring against his drums. He lulls his head to the side, resting his cheek against the cool mat of the arena. He spots Shay, frantically waving her hands at him but Hunk only sees a blur of movement. His eyes travel to Shiro, off to the side, watching Keith move before landing his glare to him, as if to say “get up, you’re better than this.”

He uncrosses his hands, making sure Hunk was watching him before he points vaguely to the crowd near the ring. Hunk follows the direction, skimming the group of bobbing heads until brown hair rips his lethargy from him. 

Lance is standing on his chair, towering over the people around him to keep appearing to yell at him. His shirt is an ugly yellow, painted with blue streaks, an angry “TIME TO GET HUNKED” which is terribly, and vaguely disgusting and he can’t stop the laughter from bubbling out of his throat, startling Keith as he slowly pulls himself up. 

Lance came to see him. Lance, in his graceless shouting and pointing, his face red and his eyes wide and maybe he’s had too much to drink, is here to see him. That even with what he’s done, the hurt that he caused, the vacuum he created in their friendship of dead space, Lance was here. Lance was shouting for him to win, nearly begging with tears in his eyes and a couple of people gripping his legs as if to pull him off the chair. 

Hunk is in love, has never been in love so deeply. 

He faces Keith, brushing the blood that runs down his chin with the back of his hand. Keith’s lips grow into a smile, proud and respectful and it blooms in Hunk’s chest.

It takes him to the fifth, with three knockdowns to finally get him unconscious.   

***

Hunk wakes up in the back, Coran standing over him with an icepack. It hurts to open his left eye and there’s an angry shock that jumps through him when his fingers touch his jaw. “I lost, huh?”

“Oh, undoubtable,” Coran laughs, continuing his work with inspecting Hunk, turning his head side to side while humming. “But, my boy, it was spectacular. You really gave that Kogane a run for his money.”

Hunk wants to laugh, hears the chatter from the bar outside the small back room. “You should rest up before returning to the party,” Coran grins, handing him more ice and a another shot glass. Hunk chucks it down quickly, ready to ignore the growing body aches. “I’ll leave you two alone now.”

That snaps Hunk’s attention, eyes scanning the room until he sees Coran open the door, light flooding in with a thin shape Hunk could never mistake. “Be safe, kids!” is called as the door is closed, leaving both men in the dark.

Hunk pushes against his elbows to sit up, squinting to place Lance in the small room. “You came.”

The scuff directs him where to draw his eyes. “Of course.”

“I lost,” Hunk says, and his voice sounds smaller than he’s ever heard it. “I really lost.”

“Don’t,” Lance hisses, his voice harsh as he draws closer, until he’s sitting beside Hunk on the small cot. “Don’t, for a single second, think you were anything less than great.”

“I--” Hunk is choking, on the stars that Lance brings with him wherever he goes, on the holes in the ozone layers and the bright suns, on the circling moons and the endless of Lance, skin cool against his as fingers grace his hand. “I was, wasn’t I?” Hunk thinks he’s crying, he can’t really tell, he’s used to bleeding instead. 

Lance’s fingers move to his cheeks, a startling contrast to Shay’s early gesture. Hunk is drawn into it, lets the oxygen leave his mouth as he searches for eyes to stare into. He doesn’t have to look long, feeling the unmistakable brush of lips against his own. 

“Lance,” he whispers, a broken man, tired from the weight, tired from refusing Lance to carry any of it. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, shut up,” Lance responds, lips continuing to touch against his, delicate and making his skin tingle. “I love you.”

Hunk is really crying now, he’s sure. His fingers move to wrap around the thin frame, pulling Lance into him so they rest against each other. “God, I just want you to know--”

“I know,” he says, stroking the small hairs on the back of Hunk’s neck with practiced ease, like they were lovers since the sun began, since the world started turning. “I know.”

He’s being pushed down against the cot, dipping into the mattress as Lance crawls up his body to kiss him, resting his thighs against his, trapping him under. He doesn’t mind though, craning his neck to meet Lance’s lips, open mouthed and sloppy.

He’s too tired to do much else than rest his open palms, burning hot, against Lance’s hips, slipping under the offending yellow shirt. 

It’s comfortable, making out with Lance in the dark, no rush, no fear. Suddenly, Lance crawls off of him with a fluid grace Hunk can bet few have seen. “Come on, big guy. Let’s get you home.”

Hunk nods, grateful that he doesn’t have to expend much energy other than walking. He lets himself be pulled up until he’s standing tall and feels calm when he’s guided back into the bar, the blaring crowd falling on deaf ears as he stares at Lance. Tall, beautiful Lance with the worst shirt he’s ever seen and a smile threatening to break off his face as he pushes Hunk along.

They nearly make it to the exit when he’s called at by Keith. “I’ll meet you outside,” Hunk whispers, feels Lance’s glare as he turns to walk towards his opponent, waiting for him with his own blooming black eye.

“Nice shirt,” Keith says as soon as Hunk is close enough. He turns around in time to see Lance exit, the block letters on the back reading “FUCK KEITH” for all to see.

“Oh,” Hunk says but there’s no apology on his lips like there would be before. “Lance is creative like that.” 

“Sure,” Keith frowns before giving him a once over. “You were tough.”

“No need to make me feel better.”

Keith shakes his head. “Hunk, listen. You are one of the best fighters I have ever seen. Don’t sell yourself short. I’ll be seeing you again, right? Hopefully in a rematch.” 

Hunk feels something tangible between them, a growing friendship that he finds he desperately wants. “Yeah.” He doesn’t even see, let alone hear, Shiro approach.

“You look different,” Shiro’s voice ghosts in,sounding distracted and distance but Hunk can see the sharpness of his eyes, laser focused and honing in. He looks like he wants to kiss Keith, wants to tell him something deep and unsettling, wants to spill into Keith something he never shared with Hunk.

“You quit smoking,” is all Keith can say, eyes shifting to look at anything but Shiro before landing on Hunk. There’s a light brush coloring his cheeks, damp with sweat. Hunk wants to smile, despite the blood in his mouth and the ache of his jaw. 

“Yeah,” Shiro whispers, and Hunk takes this as his cue, turning on his heels, but not before hearing. “After you left.”

Hunk exits the bar, nearly stumbling when his right leg almost gives out. Lance is there to catch him, scrambling to keep him up without his own legs buckling. “Does this happen every time?” He asks, leading Hunk down the sidewalk, towards his house.

“It’s not every time I’m versing the best, dude.”

“You can verse yourself?”

It’s not smooth, in fact it’s so stupid Hunk can faintly hear Pidge having an aneurysm in the distance. He laughs, makes Lance laugh awkwardly with him until it’s not so awkward as they wander down the street. Until they’re both laughing so loud the birds fly away from their places in the trees. 

Hunk smiles, feels his feet are light and realizes with the dim flickering of streetlamps, that this is also a truth, deeper than any past lesson or broken bone. He looks at Lance, sees his eyes narrowing to laugh, the small wrinkles at the edges. He looks at how his nose wiggles and his eyebrows rising high on his forehead. 

The truth: Hunk is in love with Lance.

Hunk loves him despite breaking everything he loves, despite the shattering of teeth and the broken jaws, the split lips and the swelling eyelids. He loves him despite his heavy steps and the fragile jut of Lance’s hip bones against his open palm. Loves the screeching laughter and the shitty pickup lines, loves the dip of his collarbones and the small sounds he makes when they’re intimate.

Lance must have sensed him staring because he turns to face Hunk, eyes sparkling with the endless promise that there’s so much more to him that Hunk has yet to see, and that Lance sees that reflected in Hunk.

The truth: Lance is endless and grand, vast and expanding and the beginnings of something otherworldly. He has hard lessons in him, growing pains and secret bruises Hunk thinks he has yet to accidentally touch, until he’s given permission to firmly press.

But holy fuck, in the blanket darkness of the night sky, with blood in his mouth and his sore jaw, Hunk thinks he’s willing to learn.

Hunk thinks that lately, he likes himself enough to  _ try _ . 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> talk to me about hance on my [twitter](https://twitter.com/bogboogie).


End file.
